Breakaway

11. Hayden

Chapter 11

Hayden

I’m well aware I’m falling for him. It’s a slow progression, with plenty of time for me to stop it, but I can’t seem to do anything but stand frozen and watch as my damn heart unfolds for him with every day that passes.

And it just keeps getting worse.

On Monday, Pope swings by my office to whine about Jules inviting Kirkland over to their apartment for the evening.

“I like the kid, don’t get me wrong,” he begins, helping himself to the seat across from me and sprawling out in the chair like it’s his own. “But in small doses. Long-term exposure makes me want to throttle him.”

I force myself not to laugh since Kirkland is one of my players and I’m at work. It’s hard though. Kirkland can be quite a lot, especially if you’re not in a particularly rambunctious mood. He’s definitely Jules’s protégé, with added trouble because of his puppy-like energy and hero worship of the man.

“I don’t know what you want me to do about this,” I say instead of agreeing.

“Give me a reason not to go home.” He kicks his feet up on my desk, arms going behind his head. I raise an eyebrow at him. He’s brave enough to smirk, but not brave enough to keep his feet up there. His eyes widen as he puffs his bottom lip into a pout. “Please?”

I sigh and roll my eyes, but it’s just for show. I don’t think there will ever be a day I’ll complain about getting extra time with Ethan Pope.

Still, I have a reputation to uphold.

“If you drink a tart cherry juice, you can stay and help me restock my room.”

His eyes narrow into a glare. All I have to do is raise my eyebrow again and he folds. “Fine. God. You and that fucking juice.”

“Research says—”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard it, nerd.” He heaves to his feet with a sigh. “Where to first?”

I start him at the laundry bin, folding and putting away towels.

He lasts four minutes. Then he’s bored. I try to concentrate on counting my bags of gauze, but his phone appears in front of my face. “You gotta watch this video I saved earlier.”

It’s hard to reprimand him when the video is of pandas at a sanctuary, clumsily trying to play and failing at just about everything they do. I try my best to at least keep a stony expression as I watch. I nearly make it to the end, but then a panda starts itching its butt against a log, making the strangest sound while doing so, and my inner child peeks out enough to make me laugh.

“Cute, right?” he asks with a dopey grin, a lock of hair falling to his forehead.

Yes, you are.

I look away quickly, clearing my throat. “You never drank your juice. Go get one.”

On Tuesday, I’m busy with preparations for the Wednesday away game. I have my earbuds in, listening to a podcast about the Cold War as I head to the bench to grab my large medical bag I keep there when we’re playing at home. I blame the podcast for why I don’t notice I’m not alone.

When I whirl around to come face to face with none other than Ethan Pope, I scream.

“Fucking— shit .” I rip my earbuds out, heart pounding hard enough to make me dizzy. “You scared me.”

“No, really? I had no idea.” He rests his forearms on the boards, flashing me a half-smile that displays one of his dimples. So goddamn handsome . “Whatcha listening to?”

“No.”

“No?” He raises an eyebrow. “Is that the name of the song? Or the band?”

I narrow my eyes at him. “No. I mean no, as in I’m not going to tell you. You’ll just give me shit for it.”

“I will not.” It’s my turn to raise an eyebrow. His half-smile grows into a full one in return. “Okay, I might. But you should still tell me.”

“And why should I do that?”

“Because I’m charming and adorable.” He bats his eyes playfully. “Please?”

I sigh, mostly to hide the fact that he has me flustered. “It’s a podcast.”

“Oh man. You really are old.”

“See? This is why I didn’t want to tell you.”

“Is it at least about something interesting? Like true crime or some shit?”

“It’s interesting,” I say defensively.

He smirks. “Now you have to tell me.”

“No.”

“Please?”

“Nope.”

I start walking away, but he reaches over the board and snags one of the loose handles on my bag. He pulls until I’m stumbling into the boards, our arms bumping together. He’s suddenly right in front of me, his breath on my face. It’s almost sickly sweet, like he recently drank something full of sugar.

“Please?”

I’m too distracted by the fact that the lights over the ice are reflecting perfectly on his eyes, revealing that he has little flecks of gold in them. My self-preservation falls to the wayside. “It’s about the rise of the Cold War.”

He groans. “Seriously?”

“It’s fascinating! You hear about it all the time, especially with how relations with Russia are, but have you actually ever really learned about it? We always got hung up on World War II in high school and then rushed through everything else the last week or two of class.”

“ Fascinating ,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re such a nerd.”

“Well, we can’t all be charming and adorable jocks. Some of us have to rely on our brains.”

He lights up. “You think I’m charming and adorable?”

Fuck me sideways. “No.”

“You do.” His grin slowly melts then. “Wait… did you just call me a dumb jock? I have brains.”

I roll my eyes. “I didn’t mean it like that. Those were your words, anyway. Anyone who knows a hockey player knows they have to be smart. Not always book smart, but a player who can read the ice like you guys can is plenty smart.”

“I’m book smart too, you know. I even went to college.”

“I saw that when I looked you up. Boston, huh? Wanted to stay close to home?”

“Just the best scholarship offer, actually.” He looks down at his feet, nudging the tip of his skate against the ice. His grip on the boards tightens. “You looked me up?”

Any other person, and I’d immediately worry about coming off as creepy or like I have some kind of crush. I know that’s not where Pope’s mind just went though. He’s focused on his secrets. He always is.

“I was just curious,” I say, unable to help that I sound like I’m apologizing. “After the way you played in the first game, I just…”

“Wanted to know why I’m on this team and not the Devils.”

“Yes.”

He lifts his chin, his jaw locked and his eyes hard. “And?” he asks, his tone daring.

“And we both know the answers aren’t online.” I shake my head. “Just like we both know you’re not going to tell me.”

“Are you asking?”

“No. I’m not.” I force a smile, hoping it comes off just the right amount of friendly and supportive. “You should head home. Get some rest. You’ve got a game tomorrow.”

His eyes soften as they search me. I meet his gaze, waiting for him to come to whatever decision he’s trying to find. “I will soon,” he finally says, sounding nothing but tired now.

“If you seem tired tomorrow, I’m making you drink another juice.”

He grimaces before pushing away from the boards. “Go listen to your history podcast, you nerd. Don’t worry about me.”

But I do. I can’t help it.

Maybe he sees the unspoken response in my eyes because his face closes off and he turns away. I watch him skate until he’s as physically far away from me as he can get without leaving the ice. I get the message and leave.

On Wednesday, he plops down in the seat beside me on the bus without so much as a word of warning. His faded Red Sox hat is pulled down low over his face, most likely to avoid the media that had been lingering outside hoping to catch a word from him. At the very least, Tara was probably doing her usual mini-interviews of players as they walked by. I think today she’s asking them what their favorite cartoons were as children. Fans love the little glimpses into players’ lives, but I’ve noticed Pope has yet to be featured in any.

He looks at me, his green eyes a little distant, and hands me an empty bottle of tart cherry juice. My chest aches. I take the bottle, twisting it in my hands. I know what this means, I know it’s him exposing a piece of himself to me, even if I’m not quite sure what that piece entails yet. I also know I can’t draw attention to it without risking scaring him away.

“Want to hear about the Cold War?” I decide to ask.

He tries to smile, but it’s weak. “Yeah. If you don’t mind starting it over?”

“I don’t mind.” I hand him one of my earbuds. “It is fascinating, after all.”

The drive is just over five hours. We make it through the entire four-part series, neither of us saying a word until it’s over. He looks at me when the hosts announce the end, as aware as I am that there’s another hour left before we’re free of the bus.

I realize we’ve moved closer together as time passed. We’re now pressed from shoulders to knees. His left hand has found its way to my outer thigh.

“Any other ones that sound fascinating?” he asks.

“Here.” I hand him my phone, knowing there are over 300 topics this podcast has covered so far. He takes it, his eyebrows pulling together in a concentration that I refuse to find adorable. The intro music begins as he hands the phone back to me. My screen informs me this one is about the Vikings.

“It’s three parts,” he murmurs, his teeth pulling at his bottom lip. “We could listen to the rest on the way back home? Or we can listen to a one-off if you’d rather.”

I swallow. “Vikings sounds perfect.”

On Thursday, the team somehow gets themselves riled up to the point of an impromptu karaoke session in the dressing room after practice. It starts with Jules singing “Shake it Off” into his deodorant while everyone whistles and cheers before transitioning into a full-on concert featuring Kirkland, then Lafferty, then Knut—who sings with such a heavy accent I’m not actually sure if he’s singing the song in Norwegian or English—and then…

Then Ethan Pope starts to belt out “I Want it That Way,” his hockey stick tall between his legs as he sways his hips like he’s a goddamn Elvis impersonator. In nothing but compressions, socks, and a backwards cap, the man looks obscene . I cling to the edges of the drink cart in front of me, half to keep from striding over there and devouring him on the spot and half to hide the incredibly inappropriate erection in my pants.

Lord have mercy on my gay soul.

On Friday, he’s flying high. It’s obvious to anyone watching him from the moment he hits the ice. Everything feels electric as it radiates in the aura of his energy—the crowd, the team, the ice itself. He scores his first goal within ninety seconds, an absolutely beautiful release from across the zone that lands top shelf.

Pope hoists his stick and roars as his teammates pile on for the usual round of congratulations and celebration. The Storm has a tradition of players being allowed to choose the song they want to play when they score a goal. I hadn’t realized this until the last home game, so this is the first time I’m paying attention to Pope’s song choice.

A distinctive Celtic tune fills the air, wrapping around the arena for a few seconds before dropping into the chorus of “I’m Shipping Up To Boston”. The crowd shouts, “Woo-ooah!” along with the band, nearly as loud as the music itself, as the Jumbotron shows people from the audience drinking, cheering, and dancing, followed by a live view of Pope skating toward the bench with a grin.

He scores again in the second period, tying the game up. The crowd goes just as wild as the first time, the guys on the ice piling onto him, and everyone on the bench banging their sticks and cheering. With just a minute left before it’s time to hit the dressing rooms for another break, the players left on the ice seem to lose a little steam, the clock running out with little activity to note.

Pope is still hyped up as the team gathers in the dressing room for Ian’s speech. He’s trembling with energy, his grin almost manic as Jules talks to him with waving hands and wide eyes. The moment Jules leaves him, I step up with a cold recovery drink and a towel. His smile softens, but it doesn’t lose any of its joy. “Thanks.”

“Of course.” I watch him chug the drink, trying not to stare at the way his throat bobs and failing miserably.

Wilson thankfully walks by to distract from the show, his hand finding Pope’s hair and ruffling the sweaty strands. “Lookin’ great out there, rook.”

Pope beams at him before wiping his face with the towel and turning his focus back to me. His eyes are brighter than I’ve ever seen them.

“I like this,” I admit, too enraptured not to. When he raises a brow in question, I gesture a hand toward his whole body. “You in a good mood. You not bleeding.”

“Don’t forget the scoring,” he says with a cocky grin that steals my breath with its sexiness. “So much scoring.”

“I don’t know about that. I mean, sure, two goals is impressive, but…” I trail off, feigning a thoughtful expression. “Isn’t it three goals that is really special in hockey?”

He laughs. “Would you like a hat trick tonight, Hayden?”

“Are you taking requests?”

“I could be persuaded.”

“I don’t know. Aren’t hat tricks only for the really good players, though?”

A collective oooh breaks out, letting us know our conversation has been overheard by everyone around us.

“Sounds like we’ve got a challenge on our hands, eh boys?” Jules calls the team.

“Can’t let the man down,” Wilson points out.

“Youse want a hat trick?” Pope asks in a shout, standing while raising his hands like he’s ready to hype up a crowd. I suppose that’s exactly what he’s doing. “Youse really want a hattie?”

The room roars in encouragement, guys banging theirs sticks and whooping. The players closest to Pope grab his shoulders and shake him. Even Ian is clapping from where he’s leaning against the far wall, a proud smile on his face.

Pope turns back to me. “You’re fucking on.”

He grabs his helmet and stick and heads toward the exit.

From the moment his skates touch the ice, that electricity is back in the air. The crowd sounds wilder than ever as if they were there in the room with us for Pope’s hyping.

Sometimes I forget that he was meant to be the NAPH’s next great player, but as I watch him chase that puck with a single-minded focus, I remember.

This shot is different from his earlier two, showing off just how versatile and unpredictable he is out there. With a quick backhand that’s blink-and-you-miss-it, he nails the net before the goalie can even try to move in for a stop.

The crowd explodes with the sound of the horn, the beginning of Pope’s song completely drowned out by all the din. The Jumbotron announces that it’s a hat trick for anyone who wasn’t keeping track, but hats are already raining down on the ice in celebration.

The team piles onto Pope so hard this time they almost send him falling to his ass. It’s only Wilson catching him last second that saves him, their laughter and cheering loud enough to be heard from the bench. Three of the ice techs are out collecting the surprising amount of hats that have been thrown.

Number 14 breaks away from the group, Ethan Pope scanning the bench before landing his attention on me. I feel stuck in place as he zeroes in and begins to skate forward. He barely looks at the assistant as he passes him, only slowing down long enough to grab a hat from the top of the man’s pile. His eyes seem to sparkle with the lights dancing in them.

The moment he’s in arm’s reach, he tugs the hat onto my head. I have to tilt my chin up to look at him from beneath the too-low bill. It’s worth the effort to be able to see the sight in front of me though. Those bright green eyes. That flushed pink skin. His deep dimples. The stray, sweaty strands of hair escaping his helmet. Goddamn, he’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

He flashes me the same cocky grin from the locker room before yelling above the roar of the crowd, “That one was for you!”

On Saturday, I ruin everything.

I knew it was too good to last. The moment I started catching feelings for a straight—or at least closeted—hockey player, I knew.

The knowing doesn’t make it hurt any less.

It’s after the second game of the weekend, the two of us trading funny stories as we ride the adrenaline high of another win. He’s supposed to be helping me clean the AT room, but we keep losing focus. The usually ten minute task of folding towels has turned into nearly an hour instead. It’s hard to pay attention to towels when he’s so close, his throat exposed as he tosses his head back in a laugh that’s so fucking rare.

I had been worried his good mood from the past few days would be ruined since Ian made him give an interview after his hat trick last night. The result was a twenty-seven second segment of him fidgeting and avoiding the camera, his words subdued despite how hyped up he’d been just a minute before with the rest of the team.

He was a little quiet getting ready for the game tonight, but he still played well and had been full of smiles when he came to bother me afterward for ice and stretching. He’d stuck around, talking with most of the guys as each came to get their own needs catered to.

When Jules had stopped by, Pope had asked him if he could get a ride with Kirkland. Jules tossed him the keys to the car they share without a second thought and went yelling for his mini-me to come out from wherever he was within the locker room area. I hadn’t asked him why he wasn’t ready to leave when Jules was. Just like I hadn’t asked why he was still standing around when the last of my players left and the whole arena went quiet.

With all of the laughter and smiles, it’s hard to keep my mind in control. Just being near him when he’s like this is a high entirely different than anything I’ve felt before.

It’s that high that’s my downfall.

Well, that, and those goddamn dimples he flashes me.

It’s all making me a little off-balance. Enough for me to say, “That reminds me of my first date with my ex-boyfriend, actually.”

The very second the words are out of my mouth, I freeze.

Pope doesn’t react at first, his hands not even skipping a beat as they fold his current towel the incorrect way. His smile from his laughter is still on his lips, though lazy now.

Then the words register. His hands stutter, nearly dropping the towel. I want to beg him to look at me so I can try to figure out what he’s thinking, but every ounce of self-preservation tells me it wouldn’t be a good idea to look into those green eyes right now. What if he’s disgusted? What if he’s afraid? What if he feels betrayed or tricked somehow?

The part of me that’s a proud gay man knows damn well that I’ve done nothing wrong. If he assumed I was straight, that was his own fault. Straight isn’t the fucking default. Unfortunately, that part of me that spent my whole life making myself smaller to avoid being an easy target still exists somewhere deep inside of me, and it’s that part that’s winning. It’s that part that has me frozen in place, heart pounding, eyes locked onto the man just feet away from me as I await my fate.

“Boyfriend,” he finally says with no discernible emotion in his voice.

My tongue feels heavy and dry, but I somehow manage to respond. “Yeah. Boyfriend.”

“Mm.” He carefully places the towel on top of the pile he’s been working on, hand smoothing over the fuzzy material. “I… didn’t know.”

“I didn’t tell you.”

“No, you didn’t.” He turns to face me completely, crossing his arms over his chest and lifting his chin. His green eyes are narrowed, but I can’t read the emotion in them. He’s definitely upset, but I’m not sure what kind of upset. “Can I ask why?”

I frown. “Why I’m gay?”

“No, Hayden.” He rolls his eyes. There’s a fondness to the motion that unravels some of the terrifying tension in my chest. “I mean, why didn’t you trust me enough to tell me that you’re gay?”

Oh.

“It wasn’t that I didn’t trust you. It just never came up.” When he doesn’t look convinced, I ask, “Are you gay?”

He flinches. It’s the slightest fucking movement, but I still see it. I pretend it doesn’t hurt. “No, I’m straight.”

I ignore the dip in my stomach at the confirmation that I’ve fallen for a straight guy. You’re a complete fucking idiot, Hayden Wallace. I focus on the point of my question, pushing the hurt away. “Why didn’t you trust me enough to tell me that you’re straight then?”

His lips part, then close, then part again. He makes a breathy sort of laughing sound before nodding. “Okay, good point. That’s fair. I shouldn’t have just assumed.”

“Most people assume.”

“That doesn’t make it okay,” he says firmly. It lights something in me, which is ridiculous. “You know that you could have though, right? That it was safe to tell me?”

“I had hoped so.” I shrug, hoping I’m not insulting him. “But you never really know.”

“Yeah, I get that. It’s safe here, though. With me. With the team. I swear to fucking God, I’ll kill anyone who says something about it. I don’t care how stereotypical hockey culture is supposed to be, I won’t accept it, alright?”

I fight the urge to cover my hot cheeks with my hands, knowing drawing attention to them will just make things worse. Hopefully the lighting is low enough to hide them. “I appreciate that, Pope. Really. I’m sure Ian has it handled, but it still means a lot.”

“Right. Ian .” His expression shifts. “So, are you and Coach…?”

I bark a laugh. “Definitely not. Other than the fact that he’s just about the straightest straight man I’ve ever seen, he’s practically my brother.”

“Okay.” He seems to relax for a moment before tensing again. “Do you—uh—have a current one, though? A boyfriend, I mean?”

“No.”

What looks an awful lot like relief passes over his expression, softening his features. I’m not sure if it’s a good thing or not. Why would he be relieved by me being single? It can’t be that he wants me—he just confirmed what I thought, which is that he’s straight. Is it because he’s okay with me being gay in theory, but doesn’t want to have to see it? I’ve met people like that. People who claim to be supportive, who claim not to care what I get up to on my own time, but just can’t see why us gays have to go around flaunting it. Homophobes who disguise themselves as good people. That’s not Pope though, right?

“I didn’t mean to make things awkward,” I mumble, having to turn away so I don’t see his face. My hands shake as I pretend to straighten the rolls of medical tape in the nearest bin. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, no. That’s not—you’re fine, man. Don’t apologize for who you are.” The words are pretty, but I can’t stop seeing that moment of relief passing over his expression. I can’t stop wondering what it meant.

“It’s late,” I say, my throat tight. “Let’s leave the rest of this for the interns to finish tomorrow.”

He hesitates, eyes locked on me as he seems to think a hundred thoughts at once. I hold my breath and wait. Please tell me we should stay. Please insist we be normal. Please say nothing has changed.

Instead, he looks off to the side and adjusts his hat. “Alright, yeah. Good idea. I’ll see ya around.”

He leaves without waiting for a response. I last a few seconds after he’s gone before having to steady myself on the counter, closing my eyes and trying to breathe.

I am such an idiot.